


Awake

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [55]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Language, M/M, Violence, light slash, triggers possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: LBTS ‘verse.  Lancelot remembers Roland.  This is set during Lancelot's first several months of Academy training, afterThree Daysin this same series, and flashes back to Lancelot’s childhood.





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> There is description of non-sexual abuse in this story. 
> 
> Originally written in 2006, new edit 2018.
> 
> Many thanks to Amera and to Cat for the help, pre-reading, typo slaying, and general support.

“Is this all, sir?”

Lance looked up blearily at the check out girl. He felt as if he were a hundred years old, and wanted nothing but to get his drinks home and rest his weary ass at Arthur’s loft.  But he smiled perfunctorily and nodded. “Yes, thanks. Unless you have someone to go along with this stuff who actually makes the martini for you.” He smiled despite his mood. 

She giggled and took his credit card. “Well, if you can wait until ten….” She winked at him, and he sighed silently. Why, oh why did he never learn?  He just smiled tightly and took his bag and receipt from her without answering. He saw her pout out of the corner of his eye, but walked away, leaving the crowded store behind.  Reaching his Thunderbird, he tossed the bag of groceries and drinks in, making sure not to break the precious bottles of gin. Crossing around the front of his large black car, he began to slide behind the wheel, but someone called his name.  Standing back up, he looked for the sound of the voice, and blanched when he saw who it was.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and waited for the old man to reach him.

“Lancelot? I thought that was you!”

“Mr. Winston,” Lance said warily, and nodded quickly at his father’s friend. He edged closer to his car, putting his hand on the door like he wanted to get inside.  In truth he wanted to scream and run, but he figured he’d better not do that. His father’s old friends thought he was strange enough as it was.

“Lancelot, how long have I known your family? Please, call me Albert.” The other man had finally reached him, and Lance shook the hand the man stuck out.  Albert Winston had been an acquaintance of Roland’s that Lance hadn’t seen since his father’s funeral. The man hadn’t been overly involved in the family’s operations, but Lance was certain Winston knew what his father – and what he – had done for a living.  On the surface Winston was a banker, but Lance also knew that he had seen him with Roland too many times to think the old man was honest.

“How’s your lovely sister?” Albert was saying. Lance shook his head and smiled politely.  “I haven’t seen her in a while,” he lied, “but as far as I know, just fine.” He fiddled with the door handle of his car. “Listen, it’s been great to see you – ”  The old man cut him off. “Lancelot, how have you been doing? I know you’ve disassociated yourself with Roland’s business,” he went on, frowning. “I was sorry to hear that. You were good for his company.”  Lance wanted to laugh in Winston’s face, but he kept his mouth in a thin line. “Time for a change. Besides, Guinevere’s doing a fine job. It’s more suited to her temperament, at any rate.” He pulled on the handle and opened his car door.

“Mr. Winston, I really need to get these groceries home,” he said, his voice betraying his nervousness at seeing one of his father’s colleagues. Especially one of the old-schoolers, who he was certain didn’t know what Lance had been doing with his life as of late.  Lance would really prefer to keep it that way.

“Oh, of course! How silly of me,” Albert said, his large jowls flopping with his speech. “Say,” he added suddenly, poking a finger into Lancelot’s chest, where the logo from the Academy was stitched into his shirt. “What is this?” 

Lance froze. “What is what?” he repeated, sounding like a talking parrot.

“This,” the old man said, poking at the LAPD logo on Lance's polo. “Are you wearing a costume?” He brayed a laugh, causing some people to look over at them.

Lance cringed, but shook his head. _No way to lie, now._ “No, I go to school there.”

The sky on a stormy day had nothing on Albert Winston’s hard expression when he heard that response. “You what?” he asked, his voice turning to ice. His fat face actually shook a few times, and Lance could swear the old man might have a coronary right there in the parking lot.  “I go to school there,” Lancelot repeated. “I’m a trainee.”

“Lancelot. You’re going to be a … policeman?” The shock in Winston’s voice gave Lance the inappropriate urge to giggle. He coughed instead.  
  
“I hope so, yes. If I can keep my grades up. It’s hard.” He smirked broadly at the veins that were beginning to stand out in the old man’s neck, his heart rate high and fast.  “You know,” he went on almost conspiratorially, “there still are some nasty people out there.  Gotta help where you can." He winked, then slid into his car, his hands shaking slightly as he put the right one on the wheel.  He shut the door and started the engine, but Winston leaned over him and Lance realized a bit too late he had left the top down on the car.

“Son,” the old man said, his words filled with the wheezing of his breath, “your father is probably spinning in his grave. If I were him, I might just have cause to rise up and beat your ass back into submission.” He made a face, and then spat to the side of the car.  “Roland Benoit was a good man. He worked hard for you kids when your mother left. He built an empire that would make sure both you and your sister would have a good life when he was gone, and what’ve you done? Gone and tarnished the hell out of his efforts.”

Lance felt the blood rushing to his head, and heard the sound of waves in his ears. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out.

“Your father was one of the last of the good ones. He knew what was important in life, and how to work the system to get what he wanted. You’re sullying his memory, son, and I for one think you’re acting like a child and being an ungrateful spoiled brat. I really think Roland would have been ashamed, you know. Let’s hope your sister can do a better job for him.”  The old man sneered down at him and turned on his fat heels, walking away to where his limo sat waiting. He got in, and Lance watched as the sleek black car whisked his father’s friend away.

He swallowed heavily, and blinked a few times. He moved unconsciously, and the bottles of gin in his bag clinked against his elbow.  Pulling his sunglasses back down over his eyes, Lance tore out of the parking lot and away from the store as if it were on fire.

*

Dumping the groceries in the kitchen, Lance mixed a quick drink and made his way woodenly to the balcony of Arthur’s loft. He leaned against the railing, his mind whirling.  Memories surfaced and he couldn’t stop them, no matter how much he drank. Images floated before his eyes, ideas and things he’d experienced in his short lifespan. His Academy polo was hot and his jeans were sticky with the humidity and he drank more, swallowing the expensive gin like it was water.  He shut his eyes, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, downing the rest of his martini and tossing the glass over the side of Arthur’s balcony.

He smirked humorlessly at the sound the thing made when it broke on the pavement.  Apparently no one had been down there, but he didn’t care regardless. His day had been shit in addition to the lovely unexpected meeting with Albert Winston, and he wasn’t about to worry about dropping a glass on some random passerby. He was Lancelot Benoit. Fuck everyone else.  And Arthur wasn’t home, and Lance was mad, and he wanted Arthur here so Lance could complain at him until Arthur did something to shut him up.

Which invariably had them ending up in bed, but Lance was okay with that. That was actually the only thing he really wanted right at this moment, apart from a gun so he could shoot every person who’d ever hurt him.  But that would include Arthur.

He thought of all the ways Arthur had tried to teach him to be patient – like breathing, counting in his head, imagining a yellow room, thinking of stupid kittens in a field or some shit – and he couldn’t do any of them. He still could only think of how nasty people were, and how he was the fucking stupid one for not realizing it a long time ago – or rather, forgetting about it until Fat Heels had seen him at the store.  He’d been taught that a long time ago, and he’d let his love and blindness when it came to Arthur cloud his judgment and he’d let it make him begin to trust again.

And oh, how he hated Arthur for that.

He slapped his hand on the wooden rail in front of him, only stopping when he heard the squishy noise from something wet against his palm.  He looked at his hand and barked a laugh, then brought his bleeding fist to his mouth and sucked away the stuff. He jerked out the splinter that had caused the cut and tossed it after the martini glass.

He watched his hand bleed, and he remembered.

 

**Then**

 

“Lance! Lancelot! Get your ass up! Dad wants you.”

Guinevere pushed herself into his room without knocking, and Lance groaned and threw a pillow at her. “Get out, brat,” he growled. “It’s early and I’m tired. Besides, it’s Saturday, and what the hell would he want with me now?”

“Good thing he can't hear you cussing,” Gwen snipped at him, sitting on the edge of his bed. She tapped at his exposed bicep, repeating his name over and over until he shouted at her and sat up, shoving her off onto the floor, where she landed hard on her butt. Her big eyes welled over immediately, and she ran out of the room, shouting for their dad.

“Fucking brat,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He was sure to get it from his father for that. Whatever.

Stumbling to his bathroom, he leaned over the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and had bags under them the size of suitcases; his face was super pale, and his hair….Lancelot laughed and tried to thread his fingers through his longish curls. One of them got stuck and he jerked a few hairs free, rubbing at his scalp to alleviate the pain.  He kept staring in the mirror, and thought again that he really, really didn’t want to go downstairs.

“Fuck you, Roland,” he finally bit off, and reached angrily for his toothbrush.

*

He managed to get cleaned up and dressed quickly without puking, a fact he was very proud of, and went downstairs. He thought about some dope first, but that would only make him sleepier.   Guinevere was nowhere to be seen, and just as Lance was going to give up looking for any other Benoits, a large hand landed on his shoulder.

“Son,” his father said, and turned him forcibly around.

“Dad,” Lancelot answered, sneering slightly, despite the small frisson of fear his father's touch always brought.  Roland Benoit was tall and athletically built. His straight dark hair was neatly combed back off his scalp, he was clean-shaven, and his dark brown eyes were clear and focused. He did have the same arched eyebrows and pronounced nose that Lance did, therefore making Lance certain Roland was his father. Other than that, they were like strangers.  Lancelot’s hair and wild demeanor had come from his mother, who had left when Lance was just starting school. Sometimes, he wished she had taken him with her.

Roland was much more forceful than he looked. That was his gift – to be the “everyman” so no one was afraid of him. At first.

“Lancelot. How old are you now?”

Lance was surprised by the question, but he never knew what his father was going to say, so he shrugged it off.  “Fifteen. Why?”

“You treat your sister like you’re both still in grade school?” Roland sounded polite and civil, but Lance knew that was just the man’s usual façade. The hand on his shoulder clamped down harder.  “She surprised me, is all. I’m tired. I really didn’t want to get up,” Lance answered, not meeting his father’s eyes. Those eyes really creeped Lance out. Too calm, too focused. Totally wrong.

“That’s your fault, son. You shouldn’t be staying out all night,” Roland kept on. Lance just shrugged again, but then realized his mistake as his father’s hand struck like a cobra and grabbed his face. He pinched Lance's chin, hard.  “What, Lancelot?” he asked, quietly.

“I won’t do it again, dad,” Lance whispered. Talking was tough due to the fingers bruising his face. He stared into the darkness of Roland’s eyes.  A slight narrowing of those pits, then Roland let go of his son’s face.

“Now,” Roland said, cheerfully, his hands clapping together. “I want to show you something.”  He turned and strode off toward the kitchen. Lance’s eyes leaked a few tears from the pain of his face being caught in the vise of his father’s grip which he angrily cuffed away.  He followed Roland into their kitchen, which was his father’s pride and joy.  Large, airy and spacious, the place had a solid marble island that sat upon a cherry wood base, the latest in electronic stoves – as well as an old fashioned gas one because Roland liked to cook on gas – and the biggest fridge one could buy that wasn’t commercial.

Lance was sorely tempted to grab a beer from the fridge, but with his father already mentioning his under-age partying, he figured he’d better not.  Besides, most of the time it was better to be sober around Roland.  If only Lancelot’s mother had remembered that.

Shaking his head, Lance focused on Roland, who had donned an apron to keep his crisp Burberry plaid shirt clean, and was in the process of telling Lance something about beans and roux and the secret Benoit recipe that they passed down only in the family.  “I know how to make roux, dad,” he snapped, unable to help himself. Damn, it was early, and he felt like shit still. “I could have slept – ”

“You could have what?”  The words came low and steady. Roland was not standing anywhere near Lancelot, but Lancelot could hear his father like he was whispering in his ear.  Roland wasn’t even looking at him. He was busy removing a set of shiny, seemingly new knives from one of the drawers that sat underneath the marble island.

Lance swallowed. “Nothing. What were you going to show me?” He sidled over to Roland and decided that no matter how tired or hungover he was, from now on he’d pretend he was interested. No sense in getting his dad riled up.  Roland spoke again on the recipe as if he’d never stopped. Lance nodded his head in all the right places, making “mmm” noises when it seemed like he should.  
  
“Brown gravy. Right. Okra? And stewed tomatoes. Fifteen minutes? Not twenty – no, Dad, I know you know what you’re doing.”  And so on until Lance thought he might die from the sheer monotony and the fear that he might get hit or hurt again if he stopped paying attention for one second.  Roland was Roland. He was the everyman, friendly American Joe, until you did something he didn’t care for.  Then he was as evil as anything could possibly be and still seem human on the surface.

They cooked and chopped in silence finally, Lance pausing occasionally to wipe nervous sweat from his forehead. After a time they both got their parts together and threw everything on the gas stove to simmer for a few hours.  His father had been calm, funny even, and Lance had actually liked part of the cooking. Maybe he had just caught his dad on a bad day. It wasn’t as if he wanted to take Roland for granted – his father was the only parent he really had left. 

As they finished, Lance went to the sink to wash his hands. He turned on the hot water and enjoyed the feel of the steam hissing into his face as it cascaded down the aluminum basin.  He turned off the taps, and swiveled to move, and Roland was right behind him. In his space, on top of him, his large blunt hands on either side of Lance, braced on the sideboard, holding him in place.

“Jesus, Dad!” was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. His father got closer; Lance could smell his spicy aftershave and his hair gel. 

“Do not hurt your sister again. She’s a child. You’re a man, Lancelot. No man hurts a girl. No man hurts women. Do you hear me?”

Lancelot was trembling, but he laced his fingers together to keep Roland from seeing it. “Dad, we were just playing. All I did was dump her on her ass – ”

Roland dug his knee into Lancelot’s thigh. His father gripped one of his hands, separating them, and stretched his arm out toward the gas stove that was right next to them. Lance sucked in a breath of alarm, then tried to struggle against the weight of the elder Benoit.  “Dad, what are you – Dad, come on. She’s not hurt, she’s just whiny! I’ll apologize, I promise.” Lancelot knew he sounded like a scared child, but he _was_ a scared child. What the shit was his father doing? He had always been quick to snap, most definitely willing to hit, and he was most certainly unpredictable. But ….

“Benoit men do not threaten or scare their siblings. We are calm, and we are the law in our families. How can you expect Guinevere to ever respect you if you don’t act like an adult?”  Roland had pulled Lance’s hand so it was mere inches from the gas burner, which was cheerfully cooking the roux. Lance could feel the heat and tried again to move. Roland’s knee pushed into his thigh, hard, and Lance couldn’t help but cry out.

“Lancelot. You know what I expect from you, as my son, yes?” Roland’s eyes were boring into his, the darkness threatening to eat Lancelot whole, to suck him down into the depths of whatever hell Roland had crawled up from. Lance nodded quickly, his own pupils wide with panic.

“Then act like it, you pussy baby son of a bitch.”  Roland jerked Lancelot’s hand, and laid the fingers on the flaming hot coils of metal.  
  
Lance screamed. He really hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t help it. Somehow the fire was so hot it was freezing him like ice. He bucked and fought against Roland, kicking his father in the shins, trying to bite him, to tear at him with his other hand, anything to make the freezing pain _stop_.  Roland didn’t budge. After what seemed an eternity, he let go of Lancelot’s hand, and dropped his son like a sack of potatoes. Lance slumped to the floor, tears streaming down his face, his burned hand cradled in the other one. He couldn’t stand. His knees were too wobbly, and, besides, his father’s feet were stepping on the edge of his shoes, holding him in place.

“Don’t let me hear about you behaving like an idiot again, Lancelot,” Roland said, voice just as calm as it had been a few moments ago. “A little burn will be the least of your problems.” He straightened up, and removed the apron Lance hadn’t realized he’d still been wearing. “And take the roux off the burner in two hours. Don’t forget.”  He strode off, leaving Lance sitting on the floor, clutching his injured hand.

Lance allowed himself to fall over, his vision spotty from pain, his burned fingers sounding oddly crunchy when he tried to move them. He lay on the cool kitchen tile for a while, breathing and feeling the floor against his overheated face.

He vaguely heard their housekeeper, Marta, come into the room and gasp, the sound too loud and almost as painful as the fire that had seared his hand.

*

“Lance.”

He grunted, rolling over onto his hand, and then shot out of bed, a low sound of pain ripping its way out him.  He held his injured hand in his left one, and cracked his eyes open, tears filling them from the stress and shock and unbelievable pain from the weeping skin that coated his palm.  Guin sat on his bed; his first reaction was to shove her into the wall, hard, but her face –

“Guin, don’t cry. It’s my fault, really,” he said blankly, and tugged her into his arms. She sobbed against his thin chest and he stroked her back with his good hand, murmuring to her quietly.  He was furious with her, but - their father was unpredictable and terrifying, and he didn't want Roland to go near Guin in case he went off again.  “Lancey, I’m really sorry!” she wailed, her long hair getting wrapped around one of his fingers. He untangled himself, and gently placed his uninjured hand under her chin, struggling to ignore the throbbing in his hand and head.  “Guinevere, I told you. It’s my fault, don’t worry about it. I’m not mad at you,” he lied, then kissed her forehead. “Dad’s just … volatile sometimes. I was around and he was pissed about something else, so he took it out on me.”

_I guess._

“Is your hand okay?” she sniffled and pulled away. Guin wasn’t one for long displays of emotion. Lance tried to smile at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way.  “It’ll be fine. Fuck!” he swore. “Did someone take the food – ”

“I did,” she said proudly, moving to stand. “It’s all ready. Dad said for me to wake you.”  Lance blinked rapidly and swallowed, dispelling the fear that rose at the mention of Roland. “Okay. Well, tell him I’ll be down after I wash up.” He shooed his sister out of his room, then staggered into the bathroom in a strange repeat of his morning behavior.  This time he didn’t look in the mirror, though. He dragged a small box out from under the sink, swallowed one pill, hesitated, and then took another.  He found some gauze and tape under the sink as well, and methodically took care of his new injury even as cleaning it forced bright and painful tears to his eyes again.  When he finished he put the things away and didn't look at his hand again.  He snapped off the light and went down to dinner, his brain trying to force him to act like a normal hurt, scared kid.

He wouldn’t let it.

*

**Now**

 

Sirens snapped Lance out of his memories, and he shook his head, irritably wiping at his eyes. Where the hell was Arthur? He had a vision of the fat Albert Winston again, and thought about how the idiot were to feel if his limo happened to wrap itself around a tree and no cops showed up.

Lance sagged over to the wooden bench Arthur had put in on the deck, and raised his legs, wrapping his arms around his knees.  The drinks he'd had made him feel tipsy and sick and he lay his head over briefly, resting his forehead on his arms.

 _Guin, how many things do you need me to do? Because I’m really kind of busy with school, you know?_  
  
Just one thing, Lancey. Please?

_This time. But don’t ask again._

He really hoped she would listen to him. He was doing well, really well for the first time in as long as he could remember. He loved the academy, despite the hard physical work. Actually that was one of the reasons he loved it. Why had no one ever told him how awesome martial arts were? Maybe if he had known that earlier, he could have defended himself –

He raised his right hand, and looked at the fingers. The skin had healed over time. He still had scars on his hand that were now almost devoid of color, but he remembered when they had been angry and red and buzzed and itched and filled his head with bad ideas.  He fiddled with the ring on his left hand, the plain white gold one that Roland had given him on his twenty-first birthday.

_All Benoit men have one of these. Keep showing me you deserve it, and you get to keep it._

Roland would have taken the ring by now, had he still been alive.

Lancelot stared at it, and began to weep.

*  
  
“Lance?”

Arthur was surprised by the silence that greeted him, but then he saw the small lights on the deck, and noticed that the sliding door was open. He dropped his keys and briefcase with a bang onto the dining room table, and then went outside, shutting the door behind him.  “Lance, what are you doing? I thought you weren’t here.” Arthur could only see the outline of the other man’s head, and his shoulders, which seemed to be tense. He crossed the small distance that separated them, and sat next to Lance on the bench.  Arthur stretched his long legs out in front of him, and slumped backward, not looking at the other man. “Wow, I hate paperwork," he laughed tiredly.  When no answer was forthcoming, he turned his head and looked at Lance. His eyes widened in alarm.

“Lance – what happened?”

He slid over and wrapped his arm around Lance’s shoulders. The other man was stiff and didn’t give in to Arthur’s touch. His face was blotchy and swollen, and there were still tracks on his cheeks from recent tears. He kept playing with the ring that he sometimes wore on his left hand. 

“Lance, what is it?” Arthur repeated, this time more insistently. He shook Lance slightly, but the other man didn’t move in response to his touch.  Arthur raised his hand and grasped Lance's chin, turning the other man's face toward him.  “Lance, what's going on?"  he said, worry turning his voice deep and scratchy.  “You’re scaring me.”

Lance seemed to snap out of his daze, and he met Arthur’s intense green eyes. “Arthur?” he asked as if he hadn’t noticed Arthur arriving. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Lancelot, Jesus,” Arthur swore, wiping at the traces of tears that lined Lance’s face. “What happened?”  He ran a thumb under Lance's right eye, and then cupped his face with his palm.  "Are you alright?"

“Sure,” Lance answered, and then pulled back from Arthur's soft touch to look at his right hand, using the fingers of his other hand to toy with the faded scars.  Arthur didn’t know exactly how Lance had gotten those, but he knew enough about Lance's family to know it was bad when Lancelot went to that place inside.

“Fuck,” Arthur sighed, and turned to face Lance on the bench.  "Lance, whatever it is you’re thinking, stop. It’s long past. He’s dead. You’re here with me, and things are different. Please, talk to me.”  He picked up Lance's hand, the scarred one, and held it between his own, chafing it gently.  Lance looked up at him, and Arthur swore again to see fresh tears standing in the other man's eyes.  "Lance," Arthur repeated, and cupped Lance's face between his hands.  "I love you."  He felt helpless, and worry ate at him and tore his stomach up, and the three words were all he knew to try and say to Lance.  He meant it.  He did love him, loved him like breath and sun, and he was horrified at whatever had caused this reaction from the other man.

Lance allowed the tears to spill over and run down his already raw face, and he leaned forward, his forehead resting on Arthur's shoulder and he cried onto Arthur’s shirt like everything he’d ever loved had been taken from him.  He wept and shook and Arthur merely took him in his arms and held him, and told him he loved him, and let him cry.  Lance cried and made loose fists against Arthur's chest, the one with the ring biting at Arthur's skin through his shirt.  Arthur held on more tightly and kissed Lance's temple, his cheek, his neck, his jawline, and Lance wept more.

Arthur's shirt was damp, and he rubbed slowly at Lance's back, and Lance's tears finally slowed and he lay weak and drained across Arthur’s torso. His hands rested against Arthur’s chest, the fists opened, and after a bit more time he nuzzled exhaustedly into Arthur’s throat, tucking himself under Arthur’s chin.

Arthur just continued to rub his back and said nothing.  The stars winked above them and the wind blew, the humidity still awful, and Lance sighed, and spoke.

“Take me to bed."

Arthur still didn’t speak; he merely stood and lifted Lance to his feet. Still holding him, Arthur lead him inside and shut the glass door, their footfalls on the carpeted staircase muffled and soft.  Lance plopped onto the bed, and Arthur silently removed his shoes, and then held out his hand for Lance’s shirt.  He waited until Lance got under the covers, and, when he had, Arthur took off his own shoes and shirt. He crawled next to Lance, who immediately rolled to Arthur and lay against him in an almost fetal position.

Arthur kissed Lance’s forehead and stroked his hair; he made sure Lance was securely tucked up next to him and breathing evenly before he allowed himself to close his eyes and try to rest.  His guilt rose the instant he shut his eyes; he knew how hard the changes Lance had made had been for the other man, had seen it first hand.  Lance was doing well, but that didn't mean this wasn't hard.  Arthur swallowed, and opening his eyes, touched the scar that twisted through Lance's eyebrow with a gentle fingertip.  He’d have to remember not to leave Lance alone for so long for a while, even if there was nothing he could do to stop painful memories from making themselves known.  He bit his lip and tucked this incident away with the uncountable other little bits of times he didn’t do right by Lance.

“I love you,” he whispered into Lance’s hair.  "You have me.  I won't let you be hurt again, I swear it."  He pressed his lips to the crown of Lance's head, and almost jumped out of his skin when Lancelot answered.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t answer, because he knew it was true.

*

The next morning while Arthur was still in the shower, Lance walked out to the deck and stood against the railing again, his robe – or rather, Arthur’s robe – blowing in the breeze. The sun was gorgeous and the sky was a perfect California blue – making Lance not want to feel as he did, hungover and sore and tired.  His body was achy and his head hurt like there was an iron band around it. Sometime during the long night he’d woken Arthur and they’d made love in silence – Lance had sobbed again when they were finished.

He was _done_ with crying. It didn’t help things, and he always felt worse afterwards, despite what every therapist had ever told him.  He played with the gold ring, twirling it in the soft morning light, staring at the tiny little circle that represented a whole hell of a lot.  He breathed sharply, once, twice, and then tugged the thing off his finger. He raised his hand, clutching the ring and poised to throw, but he hesitated.

_Keep showing me you deserve it._

He brought his hand slowly down, and pocketed the gold band.  
  
“I do deserve it, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, “but not because of you.”

The door slid open behind him, and shortly, Arthur’s arms came around his waist. The other man smelled of pine and soap and his hair was damp and curling from his shower.  Lance turned in his arms, and buried his face in Arthur’s neck, breathing the clean scent of forgiveness and futility.

Arthur smiled against Lance’s hair and kissed his forehead. “You feeling alright this morning?”  Lance pulled away slightly and gazed up into Arthur’s eyes. “Now I am.” He wound his own arms around Arthur and embraced him, and they stayed there until they could smell the coffee from Arthur's percolator permeating the air.  Lance nosed into Arthur's neck and then leaned back.  "Make me some."

Arthur leaned forward and kissed him.  "I will," he answered and turned for the door.

Futility and forgiveness. Lance blinked against the morning sun, and fingered the ring in his robe pocket.  "Arthur?"

Arthur cocked his head and swiveled back to face Lance.  "Sugar and milk, I know."  The corner of his mouth curled, and Lance almost didn't say what he was thinking.

Almost.

He raised his right hand, and looked at the scars.  He turned it toward Arthur so the other man could see it.  "Have I told you about this?"

Arthur approached him and took the hand in his own.  "No," he said slowly.

"Can I?"

Arthur took Lance under his left arm and stared into his eyes.  "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."  He was.

They sat on the bench on the deck of Arthur's loft and the coffee went cold, but Lance talked and Arthur listened and the gold ring stayed in the pocket of the robe Lance wore.

 

~

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was hard to write, especially the abuse perpetrated on Lance by his father. I thought it was important, though, in order to show just why Lance is so afraid of Roland, and why, in the end, it's impossible for him to really escape his family. 
> 
> I also changed the ending of this some, and I like it better now.
> 
> Lance and Arthur appreciate any and all reads/comments/kudos, as do I.


End file.
